


Kiss It Better

by barbaricyawp



Series: Monster Theories [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Gore, Graphic Violence, M/M, Non sexual ageplay, Sexual Abuse, fanfiction for fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no kissing it better this time.</p><p>A fanfiction for Lauralot's Alexander Pierce Should Have Died Slower series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Games We Once Played](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478540) by [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot). 



> Inspired by an anonymous ask she received: "Pierce kissing Bucky's cuts and bruises he got while he was the asset and acting like they were normal, little kid injuries[.]"
> 
> You can imagine the warnings that come with this type of prompt. Infinite gratitude for Lauralot allowing me to play in her sandbox.

\--

“There’s just this silence, this wound, this senselessness of a wound—some nameless realization that something now is missing.”  
\--from Dan Beachy-Quick’s “The Fragile Bow: On Imagination and Atrocity.”

—

It’s just a scraped knee. But Daddy loves him so much that he kisses it to make it better. His lips come away stained with Bucky’s blood. It would scare him if it wasn't Daddy.

“There. All better. See?”

Like a miracle the scrape is gone. “Thank you,” Bucky whispers. Reverent. Daddy fixes his little boy. He takes care of him no matter what.

“Of course. Can you show Daddy you’re grateful?”

Instinctively, Bucky knows that he is to kiss Daddy and the blood on his lips. It tastes familiar.

—

The asset has broken his kneecaps before. 

(It was in England. He fell off St. Patrick’s Cathedral and onto his hands and knees. His wrists broke, too. But it was the knees that really hurt.)

He doesn’t remember how. But the asset remembers them healed before any handlers needed to extract him.

What the asset doesn’t remember is the pain. Perhaps this time amplified by the steel jutting from his left knee. His right knee has already healed, but his left knee cap is kept open by a steel rod that he cannot remove. His team and its doctors tell him it can bleed out. So he endures the bouncing two hour trip in the van. He doesn't know why they're going to the Hilton. 

Neither does the team, it seems. They grumble and roughly force him into a trench coat and an elevator and finally a room.

The rod isn’t terribly big; it’s maybe a foot long and an inch in diameter. Only an inch or two protrudes from the middle of his knee. Just below the patella. The rod must have just missed his ACL because he can still walk. Barely.

It doesn’t even have an exit point and it feels like the biggest, most impossible intrusion in the world.

“What happened?” It’s Alexander Pierce and the sound of his voice sets the asset at ease. They're in Pierce's hotel and things will be taken care of. The pain is agonizing, but for some reason it’s worth it. Just to hear Pierce’s voice.

“Shrapnel. They threw grenades.” The commander sounds casual. But on the field he swore and hit the asset’s handler. “Some internal bleeding, too,” the commander adds.

Pierce looks on, face pulled into repulsion at the sight of the asset's knee. “I see. I’ll take him from here." He's been staring at the asset's knee for too long now. The asset doesn't know what that means. "You’re excused.”

The asset is dizzy with pain. The morphine they gave him in the van is wearing off, leaving him more dazed than he was when drugged. It's not pleasant.

When the team has left, Pierce removes the asset’s muzzle and dabs at his face with a warm wet towel. It feels like heaven.

“Look at what a mess you made. Silly boy.” He kisses the asset’s forehead once it’s clean. “Let’s get you into some nice pajamas.”

The asset can’t process what he’s saying. There’s no sense to it. His knee cap is trying to heal around the rod, nerves unwilling to give up. He can feel it trying to stitch itself together. Over and over.

Pierce must notice the asset’s silence because he says, “Of course after a bath.” 

Then he bends down on one knee and kisses where the rod tears through the fabric of the asset’s pants and combat knee pads. 

The asset hisses in pain and receives a slap across the face for it. The asset cannot fathom what he’s done to deserve it.

“Good little boys are grateful for Daddy’s kisses.”

Little boys. Daddy. The asset doesn’t understand. The mission involved an ambassador and his secretary. No families. “Sir?”

Pierce’s face goes hard, just a flash. Enough to pump adrenaline through one heart beat and nothing more. Then his face goes soft and open again.

“Be a good boy and get undressed while Daddy draws you a bath. Can you do that for me?”

The asset still doesn’t understand, but he nods. The asset has never had a bath before. He has the vague sense he’s not supposed to be here. Pierce is expecting someone else and the asset isn’t it.

But he dutifully strips and folds the clothing. Everything is at least sprayed with blood and his pants are drenched. Pierce didn’t say to remove the shrapnel, so he hobbles into the bathroom. His stomach lurches with each step.

“There’s my boy.”

The bathroom is warmer than the hotel’s living room. The wet heat feels good on the asset's skin. Is the asset meant to ever feel good?

“Look at you. You’re a mess.” Pierce turns off the water. Steam rises from the tub. There’s a rubber toy floating in the water, meant to look like a duck.

The asset really does not understand. But he lets himself be guided into the bath, his ribs and knees screaming. The water turns a pale pink as it lifts away the blood.

“Head under, little boy. We need to wash your hair.”

Pierce lays his hand on the asset’s head and forces him under. The asset exhales slowly and waits to be allowed up. One second, two, three, he’s out of air by six. Instinctive panic sets in, but he knows better than to thrash.

He just waits to be allowed to breathe and when he surfaces he’s little.

Daddy scrubs sweet smelling shampoo into his hair while Bucky touches the protruding nub of the steel rod. The pain feels distant now. A part of him.

Bucky is becoming all metal. Little boys are supposed to be soft.

Angry with himself, Bucky takes hold of the metal and yanks it out. Blood gushes from the wound and the water is now a deeper pink. Then it stops. Something deep inside rips open and knits together.

It hurts like being set on fire and Bucky can’t help but make a sound, which is a manipulation and _so bad_ , but when he looks up to Daddy he doesn’t look angry. He looks proud.

Nothing matters but Daddy's pride. Bucky hands up the rod and gets a kiss on the head for it.

Bucky’s in a comfortable haze now as Daddy cleans off the rest of the blood with a wet cloth, wraps him in a towel, and then into his dinosaur pajamas. He wanted to play with the duck, but that’s okay. He can play later.

Before Daddy zips them up, he asks, “Do you have a boo boo, baby?”

Bucky nods. “Uh huh.” He gestures to his knee. It still hurts and he can still feel it healing. Something tells him it's more than a "boo boo."

Boo. I cry.

Daddy kneels so that he’s at the height of Bucky’s chest. Bucky's been there before for Daddy. Is he going to...

“I’ll kiss it better.” No. He's not going to. Daddy flutters a kiss over Bucky’s knee and Bucky can’t breathe. He’s so happy. “I have a present for you.” 

Daddy takes out a box of colorful bandaids. A cartoon man with a star shield is on the box. He looks friendly, but the cartoon scares Bucky. He doesn’t want to upset Daddy so he says nothing.

Daddy kisses and presses a bandaid to the “boo boo,” his touch shooting between Bucky’s ribs.

“Come on, little boy. Let’s go to bed. You can thank me there.”

Bucky nods. He wants to thank Daddy. His stomach churns and his knee is bleeding through his pajamas, but he wants his Daddy. It’s okay if he doesn’t like thanking Daddy _that way._

Daddy stands at the foot of the bed—king sized and soft looking—and pets Bucky’s hair. Soft at first, then he presses on his head again. Guiding him down. Bucky’s tummy churns.

“Daddy…can I thank you on the bed?” Bed means he can lie down with his Daddy over his head. Bed means no kneeling.

“No,” Daddy says and it's sharp. His face is turning pink--the way it does when he's about to get mad.

Panic forces Bucky to the ground. First to his good knee and then to his bad one.

Agony. He’s supposed to be unzipping. He’s supposed to be kissing Daddy _down there._ Thanking his Daddy.

But he can’t. He’s dizzy and his stomach is clenching and he would throw up, but there’s nothing there. He feels empty and scarred inside.

Daddy slaps him and his head knocks against his hips. Bucky blinks, dazed. Then he’s being lifted.

“You’re being ungrateful. Do you want to be ungrateful?”

“No, Daddy,” he whispers. But his eyes are watering. How can three inches of his body hurt so much? “It just…”

“It what?” Daddy is mad. Is so, so mad.

“My knee hurts, Daddy, please…”

But Bucky has been bad and he can’t manipulate his way out of this.

“Forehead on the bed. Bad boys get spankings.”

Bucky is trying so hard not to cry. He doesn't want to make Daddy sad, but this isn’t like the time he scraped his knee. It hurts so much more and he doesn’t know _why_.

Worst of all, Daddy is mad. Bucky messed up and made Daddy mad and sad when Daddy kissed him better and...

The first blow lands on both cheeks and it isn’t Daddy’s hand. It’s hard and thin and Bucky doesn’t need to look back to know what Daddy is spanking him with. It’s the rod.

“Count. Starting now.”

“One, two,” Bucky’s nose is dripping onto the blanket. He’s the worst little boy in the whole world. He doesn't deserve a Daddy that kisses him better. “Three.” 

He gets to fifteen and Daddy stops. His bottom is sore and his tailbone feels tender. But it’s over now.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, Daddy.” He's sniffing, but it's just to dry his nose. It isn't crying. It really isn't crying.

“Turn and look at your Daddy when you talk.”

Bucky swivels on his knee. The bad one because he's been bad. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

And Daddy is so good. He softens instantly. Leans down and kisses his forehead. “It’s alright, baby. That’s why I had to punish you. So it could be okay.” Daddy kisses each eyelid. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s a good boy. It’s just an ouchie. It’ll be all better by tomorrow.”

“Because you kissed it all better, Daddy.”

It's the right thing to say and Bucky glows when Daddy smiles.

Daddy rests a hand on top of Bucky’s head. “Can you thank your Daddy for making it all better?”

Bucky nods and goes to unzip Daddy’s zipper with his teeth. The metal tastes familiar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make chapter two a more comforting chapter. This is not that intended chapter.
> 
> I'm not even sure how to warn for this one. Explicit body horror, maybe. Borders on the erotic grotesque.
> 
> More deviations from Lauralot's original series.

—

“[ _Frankenstein_ ’s] recurring story is about our profound anxiety that we have lost control of, and may even be destroyed by, the technology we have created.”  
—Hugh Gusterson, _People of the Bomb: Portraits of America’s Nuclear Complex_

—

The arm is not fully developed. Even after several years in the Americans' care, the mechanics of the arm need work. The asset is part machine and all machines need maintenance.

The soviet model was made of steel that rusted and weighed the left side of the asset’s body down. The elbow lagged when bent and the hand could only close into a fist. They ripped the mechanical arm from his body and it was replaced with a lighter, American copy. Biomechanics worked to make the arm more flexible and respond instantly as a flesh arm would.

Then it was discovered that the replica wasn’t as strong as its prototype. It needed to be completely removed to repair.

For minor damage and electrical malfunctions, they can simply rip open the arm and wield it back together.

But each update—and they come frequently— necessitates the entire process. Removal and installation.

The asset is given topical anesthetic for these repairs—any other anesthetic is too quickly processed by his metabolism.

Eventually, they worry that they might permanently deaden the nerves or shave down the bone. After all, not everything grows back. Someone points out they should make a port for the arm. Make the arm detachable so that installation doesn't require reconnecting to the nerves and drilling into bone.

In anticipation for the pain, the doctors bind the asset to the surgical table before wheeling him into the operating theater. The window overlooking the surgery is within the asset's periphery. Alexander Pierce stands directly in the asset's view.

The asset can't remember meeting him and can't string together enough memories to understand who he is. But his brain rattles and churns out the word _master._

Constructing the port means internal surgery. They apply an anesthetic and attach a gas mask where the asset's muzzle should be. But by the time they've removed the previous arm, the anesthetic has worn off. The asset struggles. Manages to sink his teeth into a technician's forearm. Starts to upend the entire table until his body forces him to stop.

Because Pierce, _master_ , told him to.

Even through the fog the asset permanently inhabits, Alexander Pierce is gorgeous. Blue eyes, young face. His jaw so square and dignified belied by big eager eyes. Alexander Pierce is going to change the world.

With the asset as his weapon.

The asset goes still, sniper still, though his mouth trembles and throat whimpers. Pierce maintains their eye contact with a fervent sort of stare. The asset can recall seeing it before, in his previous master. The one who taught him Russian and fed him from his palm. Or his previous creator, the Swiss one. He isn't sure. Where do assets come from?

When they near the end, the asset’s shoulder is raw and scraped bare. The newly welded metal is hot against his skin. His eyes sting and his face is slicked with salt water. His body is turned inside out. Pierce is smiling so the asset has done well.

The asset loses some time to unconsciousness.

When the asset wakes, he’s still on the surgical table, but the doctors are gone. Lights from the observation room off. If the asset rocks his head back to look behind him, he can see Alexander Pierce, watching him.

The asset tries to move his arms. The right shifts to prop him up, but the left doesn't follow. The asset stares at the absence. Trying to reconcile the emptiness there with his understanding of his body.

“Does it hurt?”

The asset knows hurt, but doesn’t understand the question. Yes it hurts. But the asset’s hurt isn’t relevant. 

If Pierce asks a question, the asset is compelled to reply. “Yes, sir.” Master and servant.

Pierce hums. The sound sends shocks of pleasure down the asset’s spine. Pleasure prickles and leaves the asset feeling wrong. Not injured, but wrong. The asset cannot understand.

“Hold still.”

Unmoving, the asset watches Pierce approach. He is dignified in every gesture. Walking looks purposeful and noble on him. Pierce strokes a palm over the asset’s jaw and down his throat. Pierce's palm catches on every edge of bone and the grind of stubble. The asset can’t help but lean into the touch.

Pierce draws away and the asset knows absence again. Moves his hand down to the asset’s socket. His fingers trail the skin—burnt and healing—around his socket. Not quite touching metal. The asset’s skin sings pain. Pain forces his body to flinch.

He wants more.

A moment passes between them and the asset can’t reason through what he’s meant to be doing. Usually, he instinctively know what this interaction means and what he should do in response. The asset is nothing but a thing to be commanded and he doesn’t understand why he doesn’t have a command for this. If he has no command for this, then where do the commands come from? Are there not commands for every situation?

What’s his purpose if not to serve?

Pierce dips his head and kisses where the metal bites into flesh. He wasn't expecting to be bitten too.

Fingers over his lips, Pierce recoils. The metal has burned him. His lips look as pink and raw as the asset’s shoulder.

The asset receives a slap across the face. And then another on the opposite cheek. He's been bad. He doesn’t know how to atone for the sins of his prosthetic. 

Another moment as the asset and his empty socket is considered. Then Pierce dips his fingers inside, circles each layer and port. He can fit his whole hand inside, but the asset feels nothing. Inside the socket doesn’t hurt. His nerve endings can’t feel that touch through the metal. 

Pierce exhales and the asset knows it’s disappointment.

Uneasy and unsure why, the asset shifts his shoulders. The metal socket whirs around nothing—trying to adjust tendons and thrusters that aren’t there. 

Something inside pinches Pierce’s touch and he yanks back. The asset expects another hit. 

It doesn't come. “I see. Lie on your stomach.”

The asset does as told, forehead pressed against the table. It’s difficult to move without the arm. When he stumbles, Pierce laughs. The asset knows humiliation, but does not feel it.

“Maybe…but no. I think thigh.” Pierce says.

And this makes no sense to the asset until he feels the cut.

It’s over in a moment. A cauterized laser incision, by the feel of it. It's the doctors' favorite tool because it takes longer to heal around. Most of the asset's scars are from incisions like these. The asset would approximate the incision at two inches long and half an inch deep. The pain doesn’t touch him.

Pierce does.

Pressure against and then inside. It’s a finger. Pierce’s. The touch stays there, just barely under the skin.

The pain doesn’t touch him, but he feels it.

The asset thinks he hears Pierce murmur, “Finally a part that’s soft.” Then he pushes the incision deeper and the asset’s eyes are wet.

When Pierce inserts a second finger, the asset _does_ feel it. He cries out and Pierce’s fingers are suddenly gone. 

The asset doesn’t know loss, but he feels it.

“You can get up now,” Pierce says. His voice is uneven. Rattling like a stun baton gathering electricity.

Pierce's cheeks gather blood in hectic blotches. He's damp at the temples and his eyes are bright. The asset reflects the brightness, alive with pain and pleasure and confusion. Pierce lays a hand on the asset’s cheek.

“Does it hurt?”

The asset knows hurt, the asset doesn’t feel hurt. But he knows to nod.

Pierce smiles.

\--

It is Stark who figures out that there's a tracking device in the arm. The asset's new handler is worried about a kill switch, but a quick scan yields his worries unnecessary. Everyone still worries.

"Where in the arm is it exactly?" Dr. Banner has his wire glasses on and is staring at the asset's arm. Tony stares at the screen representation of the asset's arm. His handler--call sign, Steve--isn't looking at either. He's somewhere else.

As far as the asset can understand, Dr. Banner and Stark are scientists. They remind him nothing of HYDRA and so the asset takes an immediate liking to them. He likes their operating theater better too.

If there is an observational balcony, the asset cannot locate it. Though it makes him uneasy, not being able to see his spectators, there's a comfort in it too. It feels like just the three of them. The asset is willing to take illusions of comfort for now. It won't last forever.

"I'm thinking bicep. So here's the plan. We yank off the whole thing. I build him a new one. I've got some blueprints around here some--"

The asset's metal hand is around Stark's neck. He didn't put it there. It just happened. He's not holding or squeezing. Just threatening.

"Bucky, no!" Steve has both arms around his middle the way he held him when the asset first arrived at the tower. Except then the asset was facing him. "He's a friend. It's okay. No one is going to hurt you.

Of course they're going to hurt him. That's what the asset is for. This gesture must be for restraining. He's being drawn back from Stark. (The asset cannot figure out why his new handler is so much more tactile than the others. He could have just told the asset to release Stark and he would have).

There will be a punishment for this. The asset drops his hand and looks down. "It is detachable."

"Oh," The asset knows and feels the fear in Stark's voice. "Great. Would've been good to know. Got an owner's manual?"

The asset just stares.

When the port is found and the arm is detached, Stark scans inside the port. He whistles while he pokes around in there, a tune the asset can't identify. Steve punches his shoulder and tells him to knock it out. The asset can't understand why. Stark's inspection doesn't hurt.

"That's odd," says Dr. Banner when the scan has loaded on screen. Steve crowds up behind him.

"What's up, Bruce-y?" Stark says. "Find alien runes? We can bring Thor in here to do some translating. Team effort."

"Enough, Tony" Steve snaps. The asset hasn't heard this tone from him. It must be his fault.

Tones like that mean punishment. The asset really has done something wrong. He's defective. They'll discard him like his last master did and he won't have anywhere to go. He hopes they'll let him take his arm.

The asset gets off the table and walks to his handler. On screen is a magnified view of the inside of the asset's port. It's unnecessary information. Doctor stuff. He still doesn't understand what he's done to upset Steve.

"That's some sophisticated technology right there." Stark says from over the asset's shoulder. "I can do better but...woah what is that?"

Dr. Banner places a finger on screen. "There's a...there's an anomaly here."

"A.P." Stark says. "I don't get it. It doesn't look like some sort of serial stamp. The letters aren't uniform, but maybe it's--"

"Alexander Pierce," Steve says. "A.P. Alexander Pierce. The bastard carved his initials into him."

The asset has no recollection of his previous master carving anything into the port, but it seems like something he would do. The asset cannot find a reason why this is significant.

"Well," Stark says eventually, "That's fucked up."

The asset doesn't even know what he's fucked up. He can't do anything right. He misses Pierce.

\--

That night, Steve escorts the into the room with the bed. The one where the asset's spare clothes are stored and he's expected to spend the night alone and conscious. It's a simple room much like the hotels the asset has been in. The asset braces for punishment.

Steve approaches him and then crushes him between his arms. But this is not a punishment and it does not feel like restraint. It feels safe and good. The asset does not know safe and good.

Steve starts crying again and the asset doesn't know what to do. He knows Steve likes it when he speaks.

So he tries, "I don't belong to him anymore."

"I know, I know, Buck. But Jesus...I can't believe he did. I can't believe he thought he _owned_ you."

"You own me now." It seems like the right thing to say. He expects this to please Steve.

It doesn't. Steve goes very quiet--the way Pierce did when he was deliberating how to punish the asset--and in a low voice he says, "He didn't own you, Buck. Nobody does."

But Alexander Pierce _did_ own the asset. And Steve owns the asset now. But the asset will be good and he knows better than to argue.

He's learning to please this new master. Tomorrow he'll carve new initials wherever Steve wants them. Tomorrow he'll be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of this story is meant to take place shortly after Bucky arrives at the tower. Before they've caught onto his mental state. The beginning's time period is up to you, but I imagine this is before Pierce has started experimenting sexually with Bucky.
> 
> I promise the next chapter will be better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this follow up ask and Lauralot's reply:  
> Q: You think if Steve found that out, he would stop kissing Bucky's bumps and bruises?  
> A: Man, I hope not. He’d probably just do the Steve Rogers thing and keep all his pain inside, though.
> 
> One more caveat: I don't want people to feel that Steve is suffering from a sort of pedophilia. It can be hard to remember that Bucky, even when little, looks like the man Steve grew up with. I've treated Snowflake as a sort of alter for Bucky and I've heard that DID can be difficult for partners to navigate romantically. That being said, if you don't want that sort of flavor in your soup...

—  
“The companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.”  
—Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_  
—

Thor is in town and has promised to “keep Steve company” for the morning while Bucky is out with Sam and Nat. Bucky’s therapists said that it would be good for Bucky to get some time outside the tower. Without Steve.

“It’s going to be okay,” Nat had promised. “I won’t let anything happen to him and Sam won’t either.”

The unspoken implication there was that Sam could keep Bucky calm and (hopefully) adult. Sam is an unusually good center of calm for Bucky. Steve can’t dwell on why that stings.

He should be there for Bucky. Not Sam.

So Thor. Steve is beginning to understand how Bucky might feel when he’s babysat.

They were playing a video game called _Portal_ but Thor got tired of the puzzles and Steve doesn’t like the shooter games. Plus, it seems Thor can't go for more than an hour than proving his physical strength.

So now they arm wrestle until Thor gets bored of that too.

“Victorious!” Thor slams Steve’s fist against the table and raises his own arms. 

Tony introduced him to this practice last week while testing hydraulics in the Iron Man arm. No one has escaped a match from Thor since. Even Bucky whose metal arm beat the record and slammed Thor's down in five seconds flat.

Steve shakes out his arm. “Best four out of seven?”

They don’t get the chance. Steve’s phone rings. It’s Sam.

Steve pounces before the first ring can even finish.

“Now. Before you freak out. Bucky’s fine.”

Steve can’t hear anything in the background. They’re in the car. Or at least Sam is. Steve looks for his shoes. Jams on sneakers without pulling up the backs and heads for the elevator.

“What happened?” His tone and movement makes Thor stand in concern.

“Nothing,” Sam insists. “The farmer’s market was crowded and someone bumped into Bucky and he got a little scraped up. That’s all. No big deal. You can try that breathing thing again. I hear it helps with staying alive.”

“So,” and Steve is trying to sound calm, “Why are you calling me?”

“Uh…” Steve can _hear_ Sam wince. “Well, we had to pick out some gravel and it must have triggered something because he’s…”

“Let me talk to him.”

“We’re in the elevator right now. Aaaand…”

Steve’s elevator pings. Thor grabs Steve’s shoulder before he can run forward and startle Bucky.

Nat is squeezing Bucky’s hand and Sam guides them both through to Steve.

Bucky isn’t crying, but he’s looking down at the floor which usually means he’s about to cry.

Steve gets down on his knees. “Hey, lamb. Looks like you tumbled a bit. Can I see?”

Bucky sticks out his palm. Gravel is caught up under the skin, but it doesn’t look too bad. Just painful.

His knees look worse. His right leg has a streak of blood trailing along his shin and then curling over the back of his calve. Both knees are raw and full of gravel. They need to get that out before his knees start healing over.

“Oh, buddy, you’re being really brave.” Steve looks up to Sam and Nat. Nat has retrieved the first aid kit.

“Bucky?" Nat says in her adult voice. "What if I did it for you and your Daddy held you?”

Bucky shakes his head.

Steve’s heart squeezes.

“I want Daddy to do it,” he mumbles to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey. Go ahead and have a seat.”

Bucky scoots up onto the couch next to Thor. Bucky trusts Thor, finds him comforting. Steve saw Thor lift Bucky into the air, spin him around. Steve saw Bucky laugh. Steve can’t explain why he’s jealous.

Thor squeezes Bucky close to his side. He never asks if he can touch Bucky, no matter how often Steve reminds him. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.

“You have endured your injury bravely, young one.”

Bucky giggles. He likes the way Thor talks. Like the princes in his bedtime story. Steve can’t help but be grateful to anyone who makes Bucky laugh.

“Deep breath, honey.”

Carefully, with tweezers, Steve removes gravel one piece at a time. The tears manage their way out of Bucky’s eyes. Tears are good. Tears mean progress. It means Bucky’s not afraid to show his feelings.

It still makes Steve feel like a monster.

Once he’s picked his palm and knees clean, Steve sprays anesthetic. It stings like hell and Bucky whimpers. But he seems to be calming down when Steve wraps his knees in clean white gauze.

Steve distinctly feels like he should be administering Sesame Street stickers or the colorful bandaids Tony picked up a few days ago. Bucky loves Big Bird.

Making do, he presses a kiss just below Bucky’s knee. Closer to his shin so it doesn’t hurt the scrape or threaten his thigh.

Bucky breaks into tears.

Stunned, Steve can only stare. It’s times like this that he’s really glad to have back up.

“What’s wrong, dear one?” Thor has let go of his hand, but braces a palm against Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Please, I’m sorry. I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Steve should know what to do by now. He’s a terrible father.

Sam nudges Steve out of the way. “Bucky,” he says soft, “Hey. That’s okay. Do you remember what Cornelius and Miriam told you want to do when you can’t remember why something upset you?”

“Don’t push it away or try real hard remember,” Bucky recites. 

Nat sits down next to him and rubs his nose with the sleeve of her hoodie. (The purple one she stole from Hot Topic when she and Steve hid in the mall.)

Everyone is doing something, but Steve.

“Just let the feeling come and go,” Sam finishes. “Can you do that?”

Bucky nods. But the advice doesn’t seem to calm him. Sam sits back on his heels, looking puzzled and disturbed. For whatever reason, repressed memories bother Sam.

Sometimes this happens. They don’t know what to do, so they can’t do anything. Steve can’t find much that feels worse that the awkward tension of watching someone cry. Helpless.

Eventually, Bucky runs out of tears. “Daddy…” Bucky whispers and reaches out for Steve.

“Hey, lamb.” Steve gives him a tight hug. The kind that helps him feel as safe as a compression vest can. “What do you need?”

“Can you…can we…I want to be alone,” he whispers, “but I want you to stay.”

Bucky looks nervously to Nat, as if she’d be insulted by his request. But she squeezes his shoulder. “Later we’ll play, okay? If you’re up for it.”

Bucky nods and presses his face into Steve’s chest. A surge of guilt rips through Steve. It shouldn’t feel that good for Bucky to need him like this. But it does. He feels protective and helpful. Needed.

And Bucky is big in his arms. Despite his new mindset, Bucky actually got bigger under Hydra's...supervision. He feels solid and real and nothing like a small child. Even when he hunches his shoulders in.

Steve shivers, a motion that isn’t unnoticed by Sam. But he files away with the rest of them and now they’re alone.

“Are you hungry?” Steve tries. 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Do you want to play?”

Another shake. He’s biting his lip and looking away. He wants something. Steve wants to give it to him. He wants to give it to him badly.

“How about you tell me what sounds good,” Steve tries again.

This time, he’s successful. “Can you…um. Can you, um, can you…can you kiss the, the, the…”

Oh Bucky. The stutter kills Steve. “Other knee?”

Bucky nods so Steve stoops down and kisses his left knee the same place he kissed his right. Then he takes each palm and kisses there. Where the fingers hit palm so as not to hurt.

The tension seeps out of Bucky.

“I haven’t been bad, have I?” It’s not really a question, but an epiphany.

“No, Bucky. Of course not.” He kisses Bucky’s palm again, just to be sure. Then he can’t help himself and he cuddles Bucky close and kisses him all over. Light and playful. The way Bucky used to do when Steve was in a foul mood. 

Just teasing, but also…not.

Steve hates himself.

But Bucky giggles like he giggles with Thor and any stray thought Steve might have flutters away. He laughs and wriggles and tickles Steve back in a way that doesn’t tickle at all.

—

From the kitchen, a loud thud closely echoed by a shatter. Steve looks up from his laptop, takes a second to process, and then runs in.

Bucky is on the floor with a broken coffee jar next to him, cradling his wrist. He’s wearing the t-shirt he only wears when he’s an adult (a depiction of Johnny Cash giving the middle finger) but his body language tells Steve he’s little.

This isn’t normal. Bucky’s alter doesn’t appear with every injury. But Steve gets to the floor to inspect his wrist.

“Is it broken?”

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky says and Steve believes him.

“Just sore from falling?”

Bucky nods and circles his wrist. Definitely not broken.

“How did you fall?”

“I can’t reach the top shelf. I had to, um, I had to climb up the counter.”

Steve looks up to the cabinets. It looks like Bucky could have made it if he stretched or even kneeled on the counter. Steve could definitely reach it.

But maybe Bucky was little when he reached or was just being thick-headed adult Bucky. Like the time he refused to fetch a step ladder to change a lightbulb and climbed the back of the couch instead, tipping it over and landing underneath it. Steve left him under the couch for five minutes before agreeing to help him out. This was before the war.

“Okay,” Steve says and takes his forearm. “Let me kiss it better.”

Bucky shivers when Steve presses his lips to his skin. Steve feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Yeah, um,” he clears his throat, “Don’t move. I have to clean up the broken pieces so they don’t hurt you.”

“Are they sharp?”

Steve nods as he picks up the pieces.

“Oh. Enough to cut?”

Steve looks back to Bucky. “Why are you asking, honey?”

Bucky looks stiff. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says. He kisses Bucky’s forehead before standing. “I just want you safe.”

Bucky nods and helps scoop up the coffee beans in his hands.

—

Another shatter from the kitchen and Steve wonders why they let Bucky in the kitchen alone. (He’s not sure if that’s a paternal thought or a fraternal thought.)

“Jesus, fuck, damn, what the hell?”

Steve eases out a sigh and rises to help Bucky out. Again.

“What did you do?”

“Fucking cheap Ikea glasses. I crushed one in my hand.” Bucky extends his palm to show Steve. The gesture is distinctly childlike, but Steve pushes the thought away.

It’s probably more gory than it feels. But shards of glass jut out from Bucky’s bleeding palm. It looks like something from a horror movie.

Steve winces, “Ouch.”

“Can you get some tweezers and pull these out?" Bucky pokes at his wrist to squeeze out some glass. All he succeeds in doing is push out more blood. "Fuck, that hurts."

“Christ, yeah. Stop that, you dunce. Hold on.”

Steve rushes to the medicine closet (or, at this point, the emergency infirmary closet complete with a defibrillator, neck brace, stitching supplies, and so on). As he roots through the drawers for the tweezers again, he muddles through his paranoia. 

Has Bucky always been this clumsy? He can't remember bandages or bruises. Is this something Alex trained him to do? Or is this just Steve’s guilt pumping up more reasons to feel guilty?

When he returns, Bucky is standing still in the kitchen. Staring at his palm.

Steve isn’t going to lie; it’s a little freaky. Asset creepy minus the hyper-straight posture.

“Hey, pal. Give me your hand.”

Bucky shakes himself out of it and passes over his palm. He swears each time Steve removes a piece of glass. Each more elaborate than the last. Eventually, Steve teases him for being so whiny. Bucky snarks back that Steve would make a terrible nurse. Steve assures him he would look better in the outfit.

But Bucky is still staring at his palm strangely, even when Steve leans back. Transfixed and hollow, complete opposite of the swearing, teasing version of Bucky. So Steve gauzes it and kisses his palm.

Or starts to. Nearly through the gesture he jerks back, realizing himself. When he looks to Bucky, he’s staring at him with the same hollow look. Steve's heart seizes up. More guilt.

Then Bucky socks him in the arm with the injured hand. They go and attempt the crossword together. Steve writing in the letters and Bucky mocking him for his handwriting.

—

JARVIS comes over the intercom while Steve is making his bed. It’s mid-morning and Bucky is downstairs with Bruce and Tony. He’s little and they’re making a mento/coke volcano.

“Excuse me, Captain Rogers. But there has been a minor incident in the lab. Doctors Stark and Banner are bringing up Bucky now. And—“

“Don’t freak out,” Tony cuts in. “Kiddo’s okay, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says in the background. Tony’s probably using his ridiculous smart watch as an intercom. It makes their voices sound a little tinny.

“Doc?” Steve asks on his way to the living room.

“He’s okay,” Bruce confirms. “We’re here.”

There’s some garbled feedback as the end of Bruce’s sentence catches on the floor’s intercom.

Bucky stands next to Bruce, Bruce holding Bucky’s metal hand. Bucky’s right hand is bandaged.

Steve opens his arms to Bucky. “Hey, what happened?”

Bucky runs into Steve and buries his face in his neck.

“Bucky accidentally cut himself on an x-acto knife,” Bruce says slowly.

“And before you ask, I didn’t give it to him,” Tony says. “But we’ve been terribly irresponsible and we’re sorry.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Bucky affirms and Steve gives Tony a sharp look. Bucky doesn't need a role model teaching him to apologize more.

“It’s okay, lamb.” Steve rests a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, still glaring at Tony.

“Dr. Banner was making the volcano while Bucky Bear and me played. And Bucky Bear needed a, a stick so I took the knife, but I didn’t know it was a knife and I cut my hand.”

“Like I said,” Tony says, “Bruce-y boo and I were irresponsible.” 

Steve doesn’t know how Tony manages to make that sound so joking but not sarcastic.

“Just excuse yourself.”

Bruce nods. “Bye, Bucky. I'm glad we got to spend time together even if it didn't end well. We’ll check in later?”

Bucky nods into Steve’s neck. But he says goodbye before the elevator closes.

Steve leans back. “Bucky? Why did Bucky Bear need a stick?”

“Uh,” Bucky looks down between them. 

It makes Steve realize that their torsos are still touching—an inappropriate sense of intimacy. He leans back farther.

“Bucky Bear, he was tight-rope walking.”

It’s a lie, but Steve can’t bring himself to question it. He's too tired and he'll mention it to Bucky's therapists later.

“Okay, sweetie.” He rubs Bucky’s shoulder. “We could have some hot cocoa?”

“Um, could you…”

Steve kisses it better before he can ask. Then he needs to put space between them.

—

That night, Steve stays up staring at his ceiling. His chest hurts from between his sternum over to his heart. He rubs at it and tries to press everything down.

Then he can’t and turns over to his bedside table.

He has a rosary there. It looks just like a rosary Bucky had in school. Worn wooden beads on a faux-gold chain. Steve's version has a cross where Bucky's had a crucifix.

Steve—not the Catholic Bucky was (is?)—can’t remember the Apostle’s Creed. But the Our Father is etched in Steve’s mind and it was Bucky’s favorite. A classic, he used to say.

“Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallow be thy name.” 

Steve can feel the guilt alleviate. Maybe tomorrow he’ll look up how to pray the rosary. 

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

Bucky used to say that the prayers weren’t incantations, but words meant to set the mind at ease. A type of reflective prayer. Allow the soul to face its pains and alleviate them. A balm. Cleansing water.

“And…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Steve feels choked. Grips the rosary tighter. Deliver us, indeed. "Amen.”

Then he starts it again.

—  


Steve can’t tell anyone. He can’t even quite give it a name or a full formed thought. But he knows it’s curling up inside him.

He feels like he’s rotting from the inside.

Bucky, of course, notices. “Hey, buddy.” He punches his shoulder. “What’s with the face?”

They’re trying to play _Portal_ , but Steve keeps intentionally trapping them in each puzzle. Throwing cubes into unreachable areas and shoving Bucky’s co-op character into acid. Bucky pretends to be upset, but he’s grinning the whole time.

He’s still smiling even as he asks. Then he pushes Steve off the side as retribution. 

Bucky’s always known how to get Steve to talk.

“Just been feeling guilty these days.” He tosses the box into a zone full of turrets.

Bucky gives a loud sigh. At the game or Steve’s guilt, he isn’t sure. “About what?”

Steve shrugs. Fiddles with his controllers and finally lets Bucky solve the puzzle. There’s awkward silence during the loading screen.

“Come on.” Bucky watches Steve and then sighs. “Fine. I’ll tell you what my nightmare was about last night if you tell me. Therapeutic exchange.”

Steve snorts. But he’s tempted; Bucky woke up screaming this morning. Wet and adult and wild in the eyes. “Yeah, okay, you first.”

It’s a testament to how often Bucky has had to confess his mental health sins. He answers right away. “Relived a suppressed memory. When testing out the cryo tank, they had to put me in several times in a row. I didn’t completely lose consciousness during freezes. Or completely regain it in between them. I think the whole session took three hours and it ended with a wipe.” 

Bucky finishes this recount in time for the next level of the video game. Bucky’s blushing, but other than that there’s no sign of distress. He looks relieved to have said it.

Nazi bastards.

“Your turn, Steve-o. Tit for tat and all that.”

Steve hesitates, of course. Not least of all because he’s not sure what his sin is. Feeling guilty for kissing a child’s bumps and bruises? Feeling guilty for intimacy with Bucky, any intimacy?

Feeling intimacy when Bucky is small?

Steve swallows his repulsion. He hates himself. It isn’t the little Bucky thing. Or it is. But it’s not the same thing. He sighs in frustration.

“Steve…” Bucky’s voice sounds like Sam’s when he’s trying to coax someone into healing. Those therapy sessions must provide a level of training in cognitive behavioral therapy. Maybe he can look into that in a few years.

“Okay, okay. Um…I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh huh. That’s how you get yourself into these messes. Go on.”

“And, uh. When you ask me to kiss your knee and stuff…is that something Pierce used to do?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything in response.

Steve looks over to see Bucky staring wide eyed at his knees. Somewhere between a little boy’s fear and the blank gape of the asset.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I guess he did.”

“Is that, uh, is that a _happy_ memory?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not really.” The air rushes out of the room then whooshes back in. “But it feels good with you.”

Steve breathes in deep. The air feels cold in his lungs.

“Is that okay? I don't want you to stop...”

Bucky, even as an adult, can sound so small sometimes. The Bucky Steve knew, even during the war, never sounded so small.

Whether this is an effect of Hydra or something Bucky has hidden from Steve until now, Steve isn’t sure. And it rattles him to hear his friend this way.

“Yeah, Bucky. Of course it’s okay.”

Bucky smiles and returns half his attention to the video game. The other half, Steve can see, is for him. “Thank you, Steve. I know this sucks.”

It does. But it’s not without it’s moments of brightness. Bucky coming home. Bucky trusting Steve. Pancakes with bunny apples on top and bed time stories and holding Bucky’s hand. Those rare moments when Steve thinks he’s doing okay as Bucky’s daddy. Those even rarer moments when they forget there’s something to forget.

Steve shrugs. “Not really. We got each other at least.”

Bucky snorts and hits Steve’s shoulder. “Sap.”

_Forgive us our trespasses._

Steve can’t give himself a break. He has to keep picking at the scab. “Hey, Buck? Have you, uh.” How can he even ask this? “Been hurting yourself on purpose? So I’ll kiss it better?”

Bucky coughs. “Oh, come on, Steve, I’m not—“

Steve shoots Bucky a “Really?” look and it shuts him up.

Eyes to the floor again, blushing. “I won’t do it anymore.I’m sorry.”

_As we forgive those who trespass against us._

“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You just can’t, you can’t do that anymore. I want you safe. You have to be safe.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Steve kisses Bucky’s temple. “You can just ask for me to kiss it better.”

He expects a sarcastic answer in response. But Bucky just snorts and leans into Steve. After a few minutes, he presses a kiss to Steve’s shoulder.

“All better,” he whispers. Or maybe Steve just made that up.

Because it’s not good, but it is okay. And it’s better. Not all better.

But better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Portal_ has little significance in this work other than to incorporate some cyborgs into my monster theory. If you're unfamiliar with the game, the basic gist is that a young woman is held captive by a computer/robot conducting experiments. The player is then charged with the task of completing puzzle rooms and eventually combating the computer/robot.
> 
> I imagine Steve's rosary looks like [this](http://www.theriteceremony.com.au/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/d/a/dark-bown-wood-detail-rosary_3.jpg).

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what's going on with my end notes...sorry they're wonky and thanks for reading!


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